


he waits for you

by theoreticallytrying



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Beaches, Canon Compliant, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nighttime, Young Love, and it turned into this, i set out to write thetis a redemption story, mostly set while they're young and oblivious on phthia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27387415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticallytrying/pseuds/theoreticallytrying
Summary: The sea breeze is cool against my body. “He waits for you,” she hisses, as if irritated at this turn of events.All at once I am inundated with an overwhelming feeling of happiness.Yes,I want to proclaim to the disbelieving heavens,he does wait for me. He does.(or, two seaside nights Patroclus spends in memory—one before he has learned to love, and another where he has learned to share it.)
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	he waits for you

On some nights, the dreams return, and I cannot rest.

It happens without warning. One moment, I am washing my face in the basin, drawn to bed by the magnetic pull of sleep—the next, I lie in my pallet shivering, mind racing with _never-ending flashes of bloodied rocks, and the boy’s dull, lifeless gaze whispering, laughing, red wine pouring out of every orifice, punctuated with the endless cracking of broken bones—_

I wake up, sweating and gasping, a silent scream scratching my throat. 

Since I started sharing a room with Achilles, these dreams have lessened in size and frequency. Still, they grab hold of my mind once every few months, wracking me with trembling chills. I would never wake Achilles intentionally—though his friendship is the most effective distraction—and especially not for such a childish reason as a nightmare. 

Instead, during these nights, I throw on a robe, slip out of our window, and wander Phthia in solitude. Even after nearly two years of living here in exile, Peleus’s kingdom still seems largely imbued with fresh newness, and I snatch at this chance to escape the confines of my thoughts. 

Tonight I walk barefoot along the sands of the ocean shore, the sand rough under my step. This land is beautiful, even while its inhabitants are shrouded in sleep. I am careful not to make noise, fearing rebuke, though I have never been discovered before. My silence is intermingled with the brush of the tide and the quiet hooting of night animals, and I do not feel uncomfortable.

In my hands I clutch a small block of wood and a knife, whittling at the soft material. Achilles has made it his personal project to teach me to wood carve, even though I am fidgety and have all the dexterity of a cornered bull. I am meant to be carving a small owl— _“Skops carving a skops! It is ingenious!”—_ as per his request, but it looks more similar to a disfigured urn than a wide-eyed bird. I admit, however, that there is some appeal to the meticulous repetition of whittling. I find myself lost in the quick strokes and comfort in directing the patient wood to bend at my command. Though this is not a perfect distraction, it fills the time; and Achilles will be pleased that I have been practicing, so I continue.

Oh, Achilles. You do not know the half of it. (I have begun to have other dreams, too. Heat rises in my cheeks and I cast away the idea as it comes.) Achilles simply has this quality of making anything seem possible, like we could conquer the world together and rule it however we wished.

I turn towards the ocean and kick a small pebble into the water, casting wide ripples that meld with the natural tides. A flash of a memory enters my mind: _“No one has ever tried to take something from me,” he said, with a shrug._

I marvel, still, at that. Such a world seems impossible. Yet it makes complete sense—why would anyone take from Achilles? Why would anyone willingly hurt him so? 

_He threw a fig into the air and caught it. “I think I would be angry.”_

I throw my urn-owl up and catch it, similarly. It is this that cements my trust in him—his easy, almost careless confidence. I have no choice but to revel in it. A smile tinges my lips as I imagine the glorious wrath of Achilles raining down on some poor man who has wronged him. He is such a flood; he is righteousness personified. 

But as much as I want to see him exacting revenge, I would much rather Achilles never know the feeling of being slighted. He is too trusting already, a product of his comfortable upbringing—and I already know that I would do anything in my power to preserve his soft heart.

The air tonight is mild and ripe for introspection. I crouch down to sit on the sand, feeling the tide lap at my toes. The sky is, for once, cloudless, and waxing moonlight glitters off of the waves like the sparkle of a wealthy woman’s neck. Above the water is a myriad of stars, crowding every inch of the night’s square meterage, clamoring for a chance to be seen. 

Then—a shadow. The salty scent of the sea pushes at me stronger than before. I look up from my carving. 

_Thetis._

“Patroclus,” she says, starkly. My name sounds ugly in her mouth, like a curse. A chill rushes over my skin. I have only talked to Thetis once before, and her imposing nature has not lessened since then. She stands a few paces away from me with her ankles in the surf, spearing a piercing gaze into my chest. 

“My lady,” I gasp out, standing hurriedly. “I—”

She stops me, with a sharp-toothed smile that does not reach her dark eyes. “I would like to speak to you.”

I nod silently, lick my lips, suddenly dry, and glance back at the palace, wishing fervently that I had left Achilles a note of my whereabouts. If I were a god, I could simply summon him and his easy smile, his reliving presence. But I am a mortal and Thetis could strangle me in an instant. I don’t want to die without saying goodbye to Achilles. Being consigned to wait in the underworld, alone, sounds like the worst fate imaginable. 

“It is about Achilles,” she says, and his name scuttles on her breath. “I see how you look at him. I remind you that you are nothing. He will be a god.” 

Her words pull at me with the force of a thousand currents; _I remind you that you are nothing_ . Yes, of course—especially in comparison to him. I remember, months ago, asking Achilles if he wanted to be divine. _Not yet,_ he had responded, frustrated and scared, but unable to argue why. Still, we are too young to brood; the world remains full of infinite possibility. There are no _wills_ or _will no_ _ts_ except that Achilles _will be_ the greatest warrior of our generation.

 _Achilles._ At the thought of his wide grin and golden hair, a spark of confidence bursts within me. 

“Maybe.” I look at Thetis deliberately and set down my carving. “But he is not one yet.” _Perhaps he will never be. Perhaps he and I will be eternal, in spite of you._

As if she could hear my acid thoughts, she glares at me and my brief conviction falters. Thetis is nothing like her son. 

“You are foolish,” she sneers, her seaweed words slithering around my nerves. Then, as if reminding herself, she again says, “You will die before long.”

A sudden seed of fear pinpricks my stomach, one that I know I will not be rid of until the day I die. A goddess’s temper—even that of a lesser goddess—is never something to be trifled with. Peleus’s nightly stories make this astoundingly clear, and no doubt Thetis’s anger towards me will only grow the longer I am Achilles’s _therapon._ How much more time will I have to spend with her son? How much further could her hatred permeate the earth? I do not know if I want to find out.

Suddenly Thetis looks away from me, and I feel the tension in the salt air lift. Her eyes are drawn immediately to the bright Achilles, just as mine are when I turn to see him walking down the rocky path—searching for where I have wandered off to, no doubt. Warmth blossoms in my chest, red and hot. When he sees me, he waves, recognition which I gladly return.

The sea breeze is cool against my body. “He waits for you,” she hisses, as if irritated at this turn of events.

All at once I am inundated with an overwhelming feeling of happiness. _Yes,_ I want to proclaim to the disbelieving heavens, _he does wait for me. He does._

“Patroclus!” Achilles calls, his voice carried to my ears by the wind. _Pat-ro-clus—_ the syllables crisp as always, each brief portion of my name held gently and with care. _This and this and this._ His eyes dart between me and his mother, and he begins to trot quicker towards the shore. 

“I am needed below the sea,” Thetis murmurs. She must have heard something I could not, wrapped within the waves. I look back towards her—her slithering hair and pale, stretched skin. I think of what Achilles told me about the home of the sea nymphs in their sunless caves; how no mortal who sees them comes back the same. There is a disconnect between the ocean and the land, the mortals and immortals. I wonder how long Thetis has lived under the water and the generations of men she has seen rise and die. She is so separate from me, from us—she could not understand the qualities of being brief; we know different pain.

I am relieved suddenly that Achilles was not raised by his mother. I would not have met the same boy otherwise. 

“Mother,” Achilles reaches me, and nods towards Thetis. He touches my arm for a moment, before the ghost of it is gone. _I am here now,_ his gesture says. And when I glance towards him with relief, slight worry is written over his features. _We will talk about this later._

She shifts towards him like a breathing tide. “My son,” she returns, stroking his cheek affectionately. Regardless of her feelings about our friendship, she does truly care about him; I understand this much.

Achilles smiles at her weakly, but his eyes drift towards me, and he steps back. “I did not know you would visit tonight.”

“I did not plan to. I could only stay for a moment. But,” she entraps me within a steely gaze, before looking back to Achilles, “I am always watching. Take this to mean that I am here if you need me—if you need anything at all. I can converse with the gods for you. Some owe me favors.”

 _I am always watching._ I hear the scathing warning embedded within her words. _Do not try anything, Patroclus._

“I know, Mother,” he says simply, and she nods at him before receding back into the tide.

The moment her dark hair is swallowed by the water, Achilles turns to engulf me in a hug. “Patroclus!”

My mind goes blank for a moment, still with shock, before I hug him back. He is so close to me; I can feel his heartbeat where our chests touch. I stiffen, breathing in his familiar scent. _I see how you look at him._ “Yes?”

He lets go, and throws me a brilliant smile which I return immediately. “I woke up suddenly—it felt like my mother was near, but that did not make sense, because she always tells me when she plans to visit—and you were not on your pallet. I was worried but—listen here, Patroclus—I noticed the _window wasn’t covered,_ and came out here to find you.” He punctuates this statement with a laugh, clearly taking pride in his deductive abilities.

“Truly,” I say dryly, “your intelligence knows no bounds.”

Achilles laughs again and I feel my heart jump at my hand in his current happiness. I am happy as well—like a fellow warrior in battle he _came for me,_ my own guardian protector.

I don’t see a reason to go back to our room just yet, unless Achilles beckons. Tonight, it seems, the dead boy’s face has chosen to lurk beneath my eyelids—accentuated with Thetis’s grating, incessant voice, snippets of our tense conversation ringing repeatedly in my ears. I sit down on the sand then, and pick up my knife and wood carving. Sleep, for the immediate future, will no doubt remain a stranger. 

Achilles glances at my half-formed bird for a moment before grabbing a few pebbles to skip on the water. “But the _real_ mystery is, what did my mother want from you?” His words are pointedly chosen, apostrophized with the small _plinks_ of stones falling onto the ocean. “Did she again say you would die soon?”

I nod, shifting my legs closer to my chest. Suddenly the air feels very cold. “Yes.” _Among other things._

“Well, you will not. Not yet, anyway. I will make sure of it. So you do not have to worry,” he says unthinkingly, then pauses in his torrent of the tide to look at me. He considers me with a sudden heavy gaze, examining my body up and down, and I swallow. “She didn’t try to hurt you, did she?”

I glance away. “No.”

_I remind you that you are nothing._

He tilts his head, expression shifting to one different, one of more concern. He knows I am hiding something, but does not know how to push. This unsureness is rare between us. “Patroclus.”

“What?” I mutter. He moves to sit beside me, watching me make even strokes on the wood. My breath goes shallow and I place the carving into my lap. “I am not lying.”

He grabs my hand suddenly, and I resist the urge to yelp in surprise. He pushes our palms to be flat against each other, then closes the distance between us, looking into my eyes. “Swear to me that we won’t lie to each other, as long as we both live.”

My world is green flecked with gold, shining with worry and conviction in the dim moonlight. I feel swift heat, light and fluffed, rise to my head. “What?”

 _“Swear it,”_ he says again, with more vigor.

“Alright. I swear it,” I say, if only to be free to breathe again.

He smiles, pleased with himself. “Good,” he says, and leans away, releasing my hand. 

I exhale. This is not out of expectation for Achilles—when a thought strikes him, he will always follow through. I am glad that he is mild-mannered most of the time; with a reason to be angry, I doubt anything could successfully stand between him and what he desires.

“Now I will ask again,” he adopts a casual tone, though he searches my gaze, “did my mother hurt you?”

I sigh. “No,” I say softly, “she did not touch me, Achilles.”

“I asked if she _hurt_ you.” He tugs on my robe. “Lie down with me, will you?”

I comply and rest my head on the grainy sand. “She told me I was going to die eventually.”

“There must be more,” he probes lightly. “And?”

I know he is looking at me right now as if I am the only other person in the world. And perhaps, in this empty night, I can pretend that I am. Yet I cannot return his gaze. If I admit what she said of me, perhaps Achilles will realize he agrees—and then it must be true. The seed of fear sprouts to curl around my heart. Thetis has reminded me that his friendship is a gift that could be taken away at any moment, and I would do anything—anything at all—to remain in Achilles’s good opinion. 

The conviction at which that thought enters my mind takes me by surprise. Where did this sudden neediness come from? I remember a time when all I would do was sneer at the other boy. 

_I see how you look at him._

He jostles me lightly. “Patroclus?”

I take a deep breath. “She...she said that I was nothing.” 

The words fall from my lips timidly, and with my admittance, heavy silence hangs between us. 

But he speaks before too long. “You don’t possibly think that’s true, do you?” His voice is terse, peeved.

“I...no. I am not sure.” _She is always watching._ “I understand why she says such things.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and all fears are banished. He tosses a rock into the sea, shakes his head. What he says is simple but deliberate, and powerful in its certainty. “She is wrong.”

I shift my head to look at him, propping myself up on my elbows. The breeze sifts between us. “You are not at fault. Why are you sorry?” 

He smiles, slightly relieved, when we make eye contact. “It was from my mother. And it hurt you.” He pauses then, and I see how he carefully he considers his next words, imbuing them with meaning. “And I do not want you to be hurt.”

My eyes widen and my heart begins to pound in my ears. _Achilles, Achilles, Achilles._ My thoughts are filled with nothing but his name, his voice. I am speechless, and do not know how to respond without turning into a stuttering mess.

But he is perfect and he starts to speak again, like honey poured into a glass jar, saving me from making a fool of myself. “Now we must speak of the second mystery.” He holds up two fingers and pushes them into me. “And remember that we already swore, so you cannot lie.”

I sit up and attempt to brush the sand out of my hair, glancing down at him. “What is it?”

“Why are you here? Did you sleep? Are you ill? You don’t seem ill.” The words rush quickly out of his lips in a waterfall of language. 

I blink once, dousing myself in it, and smile. “You ask much at once.”

He sits up too, and throws out a hand towards the starry sky, drawing lines along constellations. “I wonder much about you,” he responds crisply.

I follow his astral gestures, as if he were an oracle proclaiming bated prophecies, men hanging off of his every word. The trust flows quickly now, though I know he might judge. I never have wanted to keep much from him if I could avoid it. “I have not slept tonight, no. I could not. I...I simply have nightmares sometimes,” I admit, “and I sought a distraction.”

(The crimson blood flashes quickly through my mind, _spreading, spreading, spreading,_ and I shudder with a flinch.)

“Nightmares about what?”

I place my chin on my knees and rub at my arms. “The boy. Who I—” My voice cracks. I swallow and close my eyes. “—the one who I pushed.”

He leans closer to me, sensing my discomfort, as if trying to heal my memory with his presence. Perhaps he can. He soothes me; he strokes my shoulder and I relax into his touch. Truly, he is too kind to me, speaking without judgment or mocking me for my cowardice like my father would. Even after more than a year of standing next to Achilles every one of his actions seems to me sweet and new.

“I see,” he says, simply. 

I open my eyes, looking out over the moonlit sea another time. It is peaceful here without Thetis, especially so with Achilles beside me. The stars spill all about the sky, just as words flow uninhibited from our mouths—I think I would live here forever if I could. 

I wonder if I will ever call a shorefront my home. The sound of waves crashing against the sand is a grounding certainty, even when much of this world is not.

“I do not know what it would be like to see a dead body,” Achilles muses eventually. “It would be scary, I think.”

He stands then, dipping his feet into the sea. I fidget with my knife, watching him enjoy the water lap at his ankles.

“But one thing is for certain, Patroclus. You need not wander off alone in the dead of night. I was worried,” he admits, glancing back towards me. “and my mother is powerful. You must wake me when you have these visions. I will entertain you with my...my _whispered gossip_ and...my _angelic humming_. I will serve as all the distraction you need.”

 _You are more than enough, Achilles. I do not deserve you._ I try to ignore how my heart sings at his words; instead, I laugh and humbly shake my head. “It is late, and I do not wish to disturb you when you wish to sleep, you see—”

“I will wait for you always.” He fixes my eyes with a piercing gaze, and I am reminded of his mother’s similar affinity for entrapment. However, instead of striking fear, his demeanor is bright with confident mirth. Golden ichor flows through his veins still, enthralling all who come into contact with him, and I am no exception. “As for tonight, we can stay here together. The air is crisper this close to the ocean. It will do you good.”

I raise my eyebrows, nightmares forgotten, and spring brightly to my feet. “You nursemaid me.”

I fling a small pebble towards near where he stands, just enough to create a small splash, to which he yelps in protest. “Perhaps you still need to mature, as it seems.”

I am timid in my youth and I do not tell him how thankful I am for his friendship. Yet I do not rush myself in finding these words. We have so much beautiful time.

* * *

_I never had another childhood nightmare after that._

“Never?” 

_Yes, never._

I would not put it past Achilles to have spontaneously developed the ability to ward off my night terrors. The memories come, and come. Thetis sits by the tomb’s base, eyes closed as I speak. After hours of remembering him, bits and snippets from all points of time— _noses pressed together, deft fingers tying his clothing, grinning confidence and flecked-gold eyes—_ I am still not tired of sharing the stories of my life, mingled with his. I am dead, after all, and so is he; I do not have anything more to lose.

“I was cruel to you then,” Thetis murmurs. 

_You were. Things have changed now._

She has softened today, and so have I. My hatred and fear for her has dulled in my spirit, replaced by the memories that spring forth from my soul like spouts of water. _This and this and this._ There is so much of him, everywhere; I fashion our person into the wisps of an elegy, for her.

“Tell me more,” she says, and I remember a similar phrase escaping my mouth long ago, when I was lying with Achilles and filled to the brim with love.

I see the pain contorting her face, a a woman that desired for her sons to be immortal as she is. I realize that she is lonely, and that her heart aches for Achilles just as mine does. Yet still she is cursed to wait here alone—there is nothing for Thetis to do except live, forever. The golden gift of immortality turned into a numbed noose, inescapable. She cannot hold hope through her dreams: she knows she will never see Achilles again. I know that my words remain the closest thing she has to her son. Perhaps that is the only reason she tolerates me now.

But it still feels nice to speak with someone who loved him as well, to share his fullest memory with someone else. Even in life I could wax poetic about Achilles for eternity. For so long I was tied to him in symmetry and dichotomy, the bonds between us like rhyme falling into place. Thetis listens, and remembers in tandem. My words carry the sounds of a symphony, forming the lisping shape of a man. I speak his hallowed name and revive him, if only in rememberance, a dead man’s tentative kindness; I sing this final song of Achilles.

It is sunset before long. Even upon this hilltop we can hear the shorefront’s incessant crashing, _in and out, in and out._ This is where the ocean sends its tides to die; something the gods do not know. I imagine for a moment being Thetis, this endless constancy a curse.

_And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone._

She laughs hollowly. “You are wise beyond your years.”

_Chiron spoke it._

Another man that watches death as an outsider; he trains heroes to lose them. How many men has he known, their smile and mannerisms and all, only to see them reduced to paint on a vase or brief carvings on their tombs?

The day dies now too. The light sinks, spilling out into the sea, to be revived in the morning. I yearn for Achilles, which I do not say. I have shared all of me and him with Thetis; I hope to have marked his fullest person into perpetuity.

 _“I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone._ _Achilles_ _, it reads. And beside it,_ _Patroclus_ _._

_“Go,” she says. “He waits for you.”_

Her mouth is set in a straight line, and I would think that she is angry. But this is a kindness I did not know from her in life. She loves her son, as do I. And she does this final thing for him, for us.

“Be with him in my stead,” she says, before standing from the monument and turning away. “Go.”

This appreciation for her that causes my heart to soar is unfamiliar. I do not know how to express my thanks. _Thetis—_

 _“Go,”_ she commands again, tightly, and I comply. 

I sink to the afterlife then, burdened with the echoes of dreams I do not need any longer—for finally I can rest.

I grab his hand, _and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks so much for reading <3\. I didn't think I would be back with another fanfiction so fast, but here I am i guess lol. Every comment and kudos warms my heart.


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